Living with men has its pros and cons (love you, roomies!).
They are a lot more chill than I think a l’il lady roommate would be. It’s easier to agree on shit. They’re like, “Dude, we want to put up this Coors Light sign in the middle of the living room,” and I’m like, “K, if I can put pretty rocks and scented things in the bathroom,” and they’re like, “K.”
It’s pretty simple.
10 months ago, I never would have thought I’d live with guys.
For the past few years, I haven’t even really had guy friends because I’d sleep with all of them. Guys stop being your friend when you start fucking, I don’t care what all the magazines or books or people say. This whole “friends with benefits” business? Not for me, let me tell you.
One of the ways I reacted to rape was via promiscuity. So I’ve fucked a lot of people.
I’m not ashamed.
I was for a long, long time.
It actually took me until last night to realize that I’m not anymore, though I don’t know when the transition actually happened.
I think living with the opposite gender has had something to do with it. All of their friends are guys. Sometime between moving in with them and now, I’ve found that my friends have casually transitioned from a primarily-female set of besties to a male-dominant group of musketeers (Muskedoods, they call themselves. Oops. Maybe I’m not supposed to publicly admit that).
I’m pretty grateful. I like being so comfortable now, with myself and with the opposite sex. I like living with chill people and that I’m in control of splitting the grocery receipts, because I’m a control freak and they just let me do my thing.
And then there are the cons.
They’re blunt, and that’s cool. It’s a dude thing, I guess. It works for them.
I’m pretty sensitive, though.
I didn’t realize how much it bothered me until yesterday.
I found myself asking my mom if I’m spoiled and if I always have been.
I found myself hating myself for having grown up well.
I found myself hating myself for wanting so much out of life.
I found myself hating myself for being bothered by little things.
I found myself wanting to throw up from the hurt of being accused of being self-centered and selfish.
And then I found myself realizing that I just don’t care.
Last night was when I realized that all of those things are true.
There have been times when I’ve gotten so much from coming from a well-off family and I haven’t realized it. I am someone who always wants so much out of life, no matter what (and I don’t think that’s a bad thing!). I get bothered by really little things sometimes and I’m not really sure why. Sometimes I’m pretty damn self-centered and selfish and my world totally revolves around me.
And that’s all okay.
1.) Because my world is always going to revolve around me. I am the only person who has to live with myself. I am the only person who needs to figure out day after day what my body needs to fuel itself, what my heart needs to mend and stay mended, what my soul needs to thrive, what my values are. I’m allowed to focus on me sometimes, and if I overdo it, all I can do is come back and say, “I’m sorry, I needed to take some time for me, and now I’m here for you.”
2.) Because I actually fucking love myself.
This was like, a ridiculously blinding realization.
I’ve loved myself for a long time now. If I didn’t, I wouldn’t be able to write a blog about the stories of things I’ve been through, and I wouldn’t be able to help other people through their ups and downs and lefts and rights.
But there’s still been so much doubt and hatred inside. And all of the sudden, I was just like, wait - I’m totally selfish sometimes. That’s totally a flaw.
And I loved it.
I realized that self-acceptance comes when one embraces their entirety, their whole, their being. Yes, it’s important to want to be better and keep moving forward and learn more and change and grow. But you also need to love where you are right here, right now.
I may have gotten a lot in life that some people never get, and I also got my fair share of shit, and I also give back because I have the resources to do that.
I’m not going to try to change who I am, because why would I? I love myself, and change will happen naturally over time as I learn and believe and love and find and grow and create and live.
If I tried to change myself into a perfect specimen, I’d never get anywhere. If I worked so, so hard to completely replace all selfishness, I think I’d become kind of introverted and lose a lot of my confidence. I’d stop living for me and always live for other people! Every quality has blessing and curse aspects to it.
Love your qualities. Love your traits. Love you.
Anonymous said: Thank you for sharing your vulnerable heart. You are not fragile. I don't like that word. I like vulnerable. Fragile implies breaking into pieces and you are strong. I hope that you continue to heal and to love that little girl inside you. Self love. I know. And it works.
Thank you <3. I feel very fragile sometimes, and very vulnerable. I also know I’m strong. I agree with self-love, I think it’s the most important piece of getting oneself through obstacles - without it, I know I, at least, kept sabotaging myself and couldn’t really move forward with my life. Once I found self-love, I was able to open up this vulnerability and share it, and that’s an incredibly powerful thing. I’m glad that self-love is something you’ve found, too. <3
Anonymous said: I know what you mean about it making you not productive at all. I actually don't really like smoking it at all and only use a vaporizer. I find that if I only take a puff or two its not too much and it doesn't affect my voice for singing very much.
Wow so I just got notified about this post and I’m not sure why, I’m sorry about that.
I think everybody has their different levels of tolerance for weed, drinking, etc. It probably also depends on the strength and kind of marijuana; it turns out the kinds I was exposed to in the past were probably laced with other things that would lead to being pretty unproductive! One or two puffs sounds like it wouldn’t affect the vocal chords, at least in the short term, and I’ve heard vaporizers also make it easier to inhale, though I haven’t personally tried one. While I don’t see myself trying it anytime soon, I like to hear what works for other people; it’s always good to have things to try safely. And I’m glad that works for you. (:
I don’t really talk about being raped.
I’m quite strong about it and if asked a question about it, I answer it.
But ever since my blog entry several months back when I came out of my shell as having been raped - twice - I haven’t really brought it up, except in passing. It was like, Oh, okay, I finally got this big announcement out of the way, now I can move on with my life.
And it’s really felt that way. It was like before that, I was holding onto something, like I had this horrible secret and it was controlling me.
And now that secret is out in the open, which I guess makes it not a secret anymore.
I don’t really think about being raped on a conscious level very often. Consciously, I’ve pretty much moved on.
Unconsciously, not so much, and that’s where my mind is at a bit of an impasse with itself.
I’ve had a really hard time going to gigs by myself, or going out by myself at all, for that matter, with the exception of errands and appointments. But give me a social life? No, sir, my boyfriend needs to be there. I need a sturdy body guard of goodness.
And like, we’re the types of people who are perfectly content to come home from a long day and watch Buffy the Vampire Slayer and eat potato chips, so it really works out fine.
But my music life, it involves a lot of going out, and I kind of always need him to be there. And he’s very much okay with that, it’s just not always, you know, possible. And when it’s not possible, I turn a gig down.
So, you know, fuck that. I don’t really want to live like that anymore.
But it’s obviously not as easy as just snapping my fingers and suddenly being okay with it.
I’m afraid. I’m afraid of men. I’m afraid of getting hurt. I’m afraid that I’ll walk to my car and he’ll be there, he’ll have found me, he’ll know. And he’ll hurt me. Again. And again. And oh god, just writing about it I want to vomit.
He is my biggest fear, honestly. I don’t have a label for him right now other than the word “he” in italics. That’s the best I got.
And the thing is, he isn’t even one of the guys who raped me when I was seventeen. Oh no. He came after that. Much after that.
He’s the worst thing to ever happen to me.
And I thought I was over it.
Not entirely over it, obviously. I don’t think we ever really get over things that are that significant in our lives, and I don’t really know that I think we should.
But compared to how I was when I first moved out of my parents’ house again in December, when I was having panic attacks and couldn’t have guy friends over and couldn’t take a shower alone because if I heard a creak I’d think he found me…
Yeah I’d say I’ve moved on just a tad bit.
And then yesterday, out of the blue, I get a call from a blocked number.
Not a big deal, yeah?
I haven’t had a call from a blocked number since just before he went to jail. For what he did to me and my family, no less.
I checked another source. I now have reason to think he’s out. Out of jail. Back on the streets. Where he can hurt others, and himself.
And maybe it’s just a coincidence. He is, after all, legally forbidden to talk to me or my family for multiple years. And I honestly think he’s the type of person to move on to the next victim when his most recent victim no longer shows interest, as disgusting and disturbing as that is.
So maybe this phone call wasn’t him. Maybe it was. I don’t know. But it freaked me the fuck out. I cleaned my apartment in a frenzy. I kept my eyes on a knife at all times and it took everything I had to say to myself, “If I take a knife or a bat into the shower with me, I’m letting him win. There is nothing there.”
Trauma is a horrible, horrible thing.
He didn’t rape me, but I don’t think I ever would have put myself in the position of being in an abusive relationship with him if I hadn’t undergone those other traumatic experiences already.
And I go back and forth on what I think he did to me. There’s a blog entry somewhere in here that talks about his sexual abuse toward me, his rape role play fantasy that he wanted to live out, the fucked up shit that went on in his mind. There was definitely abuse, but the fact is that it was, in that case, technically consensual, even if it was out of my sick, twisted fear/love for him that I had at the time.
I’ll never understand who I was then. I really, really won’t. It breaks my heart, and I really, really, really just cannot put into words quite how much it does, but it breaks my heart so, so much to know that I ever, EVER thought I EVER deserved that. That I ever deserved any of this.
Yesterday, I got that phone call and it all came rushing back. All of this stuff that I never thought I’d really talk about again because I just stuffed it so far down.
But all it took was a phone call to bring it back up.
In the end, we’re all just fragile, fragile people.
To the broken hearted, it gets better.
To the mended, thank you for bearing with it and for being strong.
To the mending, it’s a bumpy, bumpy road, and it is so, so worth it.
To all of you, stick together. I never could have done this alone. And I’m here for anyone going through this type of thing, too. I’m just a message away, always.
I’m frustrated and I’m sad and I’m down on myself.
I feel like I keep trying and my efforts go unnoticed.
I feel like I’m in an industry where if you’re not skinny and you’re not tall, you get completely underestimated and undervalued.
I’m a creator and a storyteller.
I’m really good at what I do.
I’m a free spirit and I dance with my movements.
I can stare at a camera and tell you things with my eyes.
I don’t just get in front of a camera and make cute little poses because it’s fun or to be raunchy, and if you do that, that’s cool to. Everybody has different motivations and reasons for why they do what they do.
Me? I want to tell stories. I want to make conceptual photography come to life, from in front of the camera, from behind the camera, I don’t care.
I want to dance.
I want to fucking dance with my hands in swirls around my eyes. I want to take long pieces of fabric and tie them to a dress and create an endless gown. I want to roll around in the ocean and be a mermaid for awhile.
But the people who do these things only work with the tall, skinny, and/or agency represented people of this industry. And that’s not me, and it never will be, and I’m okay with that.
I’m just annoyed about it right now.
It’s been a month.
I haven’t known what to say, how to say it.
I go up and down in the intensity of what I write about, and that’s okay.
I don’t want my life to always be like, “So, guys, I was raped,” or “So, guys, I have this eating disorder that I’m really struggling with.”
I’m not really struggling with my eating disorder right now.
I haven’t binged in over sixth months. By the terms of a style of therapy I studied, bingeing is no longer considered a coping skill/behavior for me.
All this is good, right?
Right, it is. That’s the quick, simple answer. It is good.
There’s just something missing.
My life is so surreal right now.
My music is on iTunes. It’s on Spotify. I just got the email yesterday - it might end up on Pandora (I’m not getting overly excited about this, folks - it also may very well be rejected). I’m likely going to be selected to showcase in RAW Boston in September (also not a definite).
People ask me how long I’ve been a professional musician and I say a year, but that’s not true.
I became a professional musician after recovering from the breast reduction surgery I had in January. I became a professional musician in March of 2014.
It’s now June and this is how I make my living.
What’s wrong with this picture?
Isn’t something wrong with this picture?
It just doesn’t really seem like that’s possible.
And even if it were, even if I just kept going and going and going, what if it stops?
There’s only so much a person can handle, you know? This is the main thing that’s stopped me for the past few years: the fear of success, which leads to the ultimate fear of failure.
I’m afraid. I’m afraid that if I become successful I won’t be able to handle it. That it’ll all be too much for me and I’ll fall apart.
And then I won’t have anything left, because my whole life is kind of about making my career happen and I don’t really know what I am or what I want without that.
In the midst of everything I’m doing right now, I’m also changing around my entire diet (for health reasons, under the care of a doctor) which is a multiple month process, engaging in some serious, hard-core physical therapy, participating in multiple medical tests (again, health reasons), and gradually decreasing and going off of my pharmaceutical medications (don’t worry, I’m remaining on all of my supplements and have been and will be taking them diligently).
And yet, in the midst of all of that, I’m also kind of doing the best I’ve ever done. I believe in myself the most I ever have, and while I’m scared, I really have to question:
Am I only scared because I’m afraid of what life would be like if I weren’t so driven by being afraid of everything?
Fear is prohibiting and it is driving. It see it in my own life and I see it in the lives of those around me. My fear of becoming unstable again, of having the type of life I used to have, it keeps me going, it keeps me pushing harder and harder to become stronger and stronger and maintain the life I want. On the other hand, my fears of the past repeating itself, of being raped again, of failure - those fears convince me to sabotage myself, to barricade myself inside the safety of my own head, to keep myself from moving forward because that seems like the safest thing to do.
If you read my last blog, you know that I’ve spent a lot of my time lately feeling afraid. I’ve been thinking about that a lot, more so than I already was. In a healthy way, I mean. Wondering why, wondering what it is that makes me so afraid after all this time.
My relationship with this douche ended a long time ago. I’m in the most fantastic relationship of my life now and for the past few months, I haven’t really been afraid because of my previous one. Part of the focus in the hypnosis sessions I had recently (again, see previous blogs) was on letting go of the trauma that relationship invoked in me and all of the experiences I had during that time. It really helped, and the past few months have been some of the most life-changing I have ever experienced.
And yet the past couple of weeks I have been so afraid, so obsessed, and so intwined in the past, in that relationship, in him and in that whole experience and everything it did to me and my fears about him and what could happen now.
And I have to wonder…what could happen now? I mean, what am I really afraid of? I was thinking about that for awhile last night. Like, what would really happen? What if I did see him now? Now that he and I are no longer in a relationship, the abuse he inflicted isn’t something he could inflict now. What am I so afraid of?
And I suddenly had one of those really significant moments that I didn’t expect to be significant at all.
I was standing in my kitchen, waiting for my tea to finish microwaving, and all of the sudden, it was just like, oh - I understood. I think part of the reason I’m so afraid is because:
I’ve spent every year and every day of my life being afraid. Fear is a very significant portion of how I define myself. The main reason I’m still so afraid now is because I’m terrified of what my life would be like if I didn’t have anything to be afraid of.
Aaaand poof. Mind blown.
I’m creating fear-inducing situations for myself. I want to stop, and I’m not sure how. Because I also don’t want to stop. Because I’m afraid to stop.
My life is fear driven.
I don’t want it to be anymore.
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